


(Not Quite) All The Small Things

by leveragehunters (Monkeygreen)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Fluff, Happy Steve Bingo, M/M, Magical Realism, Mice, POV Bucky Barnes, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes, Silly, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, god of a minor thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-07 20:51:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16415732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monkeygreen/pseuds/leveragehunters
Summary: Bucky was used to finding Steve in alleys. Not every day, thank baby Jesus and all the saints or he’d be as grey as Mrs Milligicutty, but often enough.The thing about Steve in alleys was, it meant finding Steve in fights. Or finding Steve after fights, bloody and bruised, picking gravel and dirt out of his skin, having come off third best in a two-person punch-up. Sometimes, not often, but sometimes, it meant finding Steve standing, bruised but unbowed, glaring down some hapless meathead who’d underestimated just how much sheer goddamned never-say-die was packed onto those skinny bones.Thatwas Steve in alleys. Not this hunched over sack of glare, facing down a mangy orange tom cat that was glaring right back and trying to dart past his legs.





	(Not Quite) All The Small Things

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first square (free choice, woo!) for my Happy Steve Bingo. I'm not sure I'll get the others done, since I'm shoulder deep and sinking fast in this year's self-indulgent birthday fic (it's gonna be long, which is why there hasn't been anything new from me lately, but I'm determined to have it done on time), but I'm going to try!
> 
> Title is blatantly stolen from the Blink-182 song of the same name. Also, FYI, 'full of piss and vinegar' is a saying that basically means full of energy, with overtones of ready to fight.

**Brooklyn, 1935**

Bucky was used to finding Steve in alleys. Not every day, thank baby Jesus and all the saints or he’d be as grey as Mrs Milligicutty, but often enough.

The thing about Steve in alleys was, it meant finding Steve in _fights_. Or finding Steve after fights, bloody and bruised, picking gravel and dirt out of his skin, having come off third best in a two-person punch-up. Sometimes, not often, but sometimes, it meant finding Steve standing, bruised but unbowed, glaring down some hapless meathead who’d underestimated just how much sheer goddamned never-say-die was packed onto those skinny bones.

 _That_ was Steve in alleys. Not this hunched over sack of glare, facing down a mangy orange tom cat that was glaring right back and trying to dart past his legs.  

"I know you don’t like when fellas yell crude things at the ladies," Bucky drawled as he sauntered towards them, the cat giving them both a deeply disgusted look before taking off, "but you _do_ know catcalling’s got nothing to do with actual cats. Right?"

"That’s real funny, Bucky. You’re a regular laugh riot." Steve rolled his eyes and turned around. Something had knocked over the trash cans, and Steve was staring down into the scattered garbage with a weird kind of...hell, Bucky didn't know what to call it but  _pride_. Steve leaned down to push some trash aside, then jerked his hand back with a grin.

"What _have_ you found now?" Bucky didn't bother to wait for an answer as he peered over Steve's shoulder to see for himself. He wasn’t expecting a mouse. No, make that _mice_ , even if the extras were smaller than any mouse he’d ever seen. "Stealing meals from cats?" he asked, swallowing laughter, because what the _hell_. "They’ve gotta eat too."

Steve gave him a dark look.

Bucky held up his hands, placating, as he took a step back. "Don’t give me that, I didn’t know you were suddenly in love with vermin."

Steve blew a sharp breath out through his nose, that irritated huff Bucky knew so well, he just wasn’t used to it being brought on by rodents.

He looked from Steve to the mouse. It—or she, he guessed, from the way it was fussing over the squirming pile of fuzzy brown babies, was small and brown and looked like every damn mouse he’d ever seen. Steve was rubbing a hand over his mouth, studying the mouse and her babies like they were a puzzle to solve and not _vermin_ , exactly the same as the vermin they’d trapped in their apartments a dozen times over the last year.

When Steve nodded to himself, Bucky knew Steve had figured it out. Figured _what_ out, he had no idea, but Steve had reached some kind of decision. Bucky watched, baffled, as he rummaged in the trash until he came up with a couple of candy bar boxes and a bit of ripped cardboard.

"Block her off on one side," he said, impatiently handing one of the boxes to Bucky.

Normally, Bucky was happy to do what Steve said. Or at least willing. But today he cocked an eyebrow at him.

Steve scowled.

Bucky sighed and went and blocked the mouse off while Steve knelt in the grimy alley, getting his trousers all dirty. _Jump into one fight to help out some skinny kid and wind up crouching in an alley, praying no one sees you, trying to catch a damn mouse because suddenly your best friend’s gone soft in the he—_

The mouse crouched over her babies as Steve lowered the box, tail rattling, teeth bared, like she was prepared to fight whatever she had to, to the death if that’s what it took: the box, Steve’s hand, Steve, the entire world, and everything suddenly clicked into place.

He got it. He _understood_.

"So, how’d you find this mouse?"

Steve shrugged, keeping his eyes on the mouse. "I was cutting through the alley on the way home, saw the cat, got curious." A smile snuck onto his face. "She was trying to fight the cat, Buck. Went right for its nose."

He chivvied her sideways with the bit of cardboard and she rattled her tail again, but Bucky gently blocked her in, watching Steve out of the corner of his eye.  

"Fifty times her size, claws and teeth and all, and she didn’t run."

"Can’t imagine why that’s familiar," Bucky muttered under his breath.

Steve either didn't hear or pretended not to, popping his box over the mouse while Bucky distracted her, just about losing a chunk of skin in the process, and carefully slipped the bit of cardboard underneath it.

As Steve slowly turned the box over, Bucky could hear faint peeps coming from inside and a tearing noise he’d bet good money was the mouse ripping into the side. _Jesus. The thing doesn't know when to quit._

Steve grinned at the box as he hauled himself to his feet, fingers wrapped protectively around the dirty cardboard as he tucked it against his chest. It sparked something to life, emotions beating like wings inside Bucky's heart, but he didn't have the words to set them free. Not like he could say them, anyway, even if he did somehow find them.

He settled for tossing his box in the trash as he stood, wrapping his fingers around Steve’s shoulder, looking him deep in the eyes, and saying, "Please don’t tell me you want to keep her as a pet."

Steve smiled, slow and sly. "I don’t know, I thought I could start a show, maybe take her on the road. Steve Rogers’ fighting mice has a nice ring to it."

Bucky snorted and let go, giving him a little shove, making him laugh. "Oh no. One of you’s enough."

"Are you calling me a mouse?" Steve asked as he started walking, Bucky falling into step beside him.

He stared up at the sky, scratching absently at his throat. "Mmm, because _mice_ are the only small critters who don't know when to back down."

Steve half-glared at him, but it was obvious his heart wasn't in it. "The only reason you’re not paying for that _small_ is I don’t want to hurt the mouse."

Bucky grinned, pleased to have gotten away with it. "What _are_ you going to do with her?"

"You know those old pipes up behind Pascals drug store? The ones with the grates on the end? She and her babies should be safe there."

"Just what Brooklyn needs, more mice," Bucky said, but he patted the top of the box good-naturedly. "Sounds like a plan."

It didn’t take them long to get to the alley behind Pascals and, luck on their side, it was deserted. Steve shoved the box into one of the pipes, right up against the grating, and pulled the cardboard away, keeping his fingers clear, then backed off.

They caught a glimpse of the mouse, creeping carefully out of the box, heard loud, healthy peeping, and left her to find her own way.

They didn’t look back, because who _would_ look back, so they didn’t see the mouse leap up to perch on top of the box, nose high in the air, sniffing madly after Steve.

 

* * *

 

 

**Brooklyn, eightyish years later**

Moving back to Brooklyn wasn’t a decision they made lightly. Neither of them were who they’d been, but then neither was Brooklyn, both of them irrevocably changed by time. But when they decided they didn’t want to live in the Tower—stay, sure, sometimes, but not live, the Tower too many things to too many people when they wanted somewhere that was _only_ home—Brooklyn called them back.

When they moved in they did so as ordinarily as possible. Just two guys with a truck full of stuff, settling into their new home. Two guys who’d walked down hellish roads to find peace together at the other end.

As they carried their stuff up to their apartment—their security-reinforced, everything-reinforced, entirety of the top floor apartment, because however ordinary this moment might be, the truth of who they were was always with them—they didn’t see the gleaming black eyes peering out from every nook and cranny. They didn’t notice the madly sniffing noses or hear the tiny scampering feet.

The stir of excitement scurrying through Brooklyn’s unseen places bypassed them entirely.

 

*   *   *

 

What didn’t bypass them entirely was the junk sitting outside their front door the next morning.

Bucky, scrubbing his right hand through his hair as he yawned, was heading out to pick up milk from the bodega on the corner when he stopped on the threshold, staring down at the tiny pink paper umbrella lying on the carpet.

It _had_ been propped against the door right up until he’d opened it. There was an untouched prawn cracker lying next to it, and a scrap of grey cloth.

"Huh."

Steve, barefoot, tousle-haired, soft and warm with sleep, slipped his arms around Bucky’s waist, fingers creeping up under his shirt to press against his stomach. "What’s up?" he asked drowsily.

Bucky leaned back into him, sliding his metal hand down Steve’s thigh, because he could, because he loved the little noises Steve made, the way he pressed into his touch. "I like you like this."

Steve scrubbed his face against Bucky’s back, tucking himself closer, smiled against Bucky’s skin as he kissed his neck. "Big surprise."

"The ego on you…"

It got him a soft laugh. "You said ‘huh’."

"And that got your attention?"

Steve shrugged.

"We’re the only ones with access to this floor, right?" It wasn't a question; Bucky was checking off points on a mental list. "Elevator's secure, floor's secure."

"Right."

Bucky pointed down.

Steve kissed Bucky’s shoulder, rubbed his cheek against it like an overgrown cat, and finally followed Bucky’s finger to the floor. "Huh."

"See?"

"Not really. Probably fell out of the boxes."

Bucky frowned, but Steve’s fingers started stroking his stomach in slow, random patterns. Distracting patterns.

He guessed they _could_ have fallen out of the boxes.  

Steve nuzzled behind his ear with intent and Bucky grinned. "Changed your mind about the milk?"

"For the moment," Steve said and yanked him back into the apartment.

 

*   *   *

 

It wasn't the last time they found junk outside their door. It was, to be perfectly accurate, the _first_ time. The first time, because it was followed by the second time and the third time and many more times after that.

Scraps of soft cloth. Shiny pennies. Unburnt matches. Prawn crackers—never any other food, though, just the prawn crackers. Plastic swords and paper umbrellas, like you'd find in a sickly-sweet cocktail with too much fruit.

They all appeared at their door.

Delivered by mice.

Bucky wondered if someone was fucking with them.

They knew it was mice because the hall was wired for surveillance and there they were, clear as day, little brown mice, some with splashes of white, creeping out of the elevator and the vents and who knew where, dragging their junk with them.

"What the fuck, Steve?"

"Why are you asking me?"

"Because I've got to ask someone and there's no one else here."

The first few times, Steve gave free rein to Bucky's paranoia: everything was safely scooped up and destroyed. But when the prawn crackers and tiny swords and shiny pennies turned out to be exactly what they seemed, Steve had started sighing and waving him off, gathering it all up.

The matches went in a jar, the pennies went in the bowl by the door. The tiny swords and the paper umbrellas got tossed in a kitchen drawer. The rest went in the trash, but the useful things—even if Bucky might argue the definition—those Steve kept.

" _Why_?" Bucky asked.

"I dunno, Buck. It doesn't seem right to toss it all out."

 

*   *   *

 

The weeks went past and they kept coming. Little brown mice with splashes of white, dutifully delivering detritus to their door.

It was _baffling._

They were lying in bed one night when Steve said, completely out of the blue, "We could ask them."

"What?"

"We could ask them. The mice."

Bucky stared at Steve. Then he rolled off the bed, walked over to turn on the light, walked back, and stared at him some more.

Steve blinked up at him mildly. "Problem?"

"You hiding a mouse to human translator somewhere you’re not telling me?"

"Maybe." He waggled his eyebrows. "Want to go looking?"

Bucky grabbed Steve's pillow and tried to smother him with it, but it just made him laugh, then he dragged Bucky down and flipped him over—easily, since Bucky didn’t bother with even token resistance—pinning him to the bed with his full weight. Bucky stretched happily, tilting his chin so Steve could kiss his neck, then said, "Wait."

"Hmmmm?" Steve breathed against his skin.

"Asking the mice?"

"Oh. Right. Thor."

"Thor?"

"Yeah, Thor. He can talk to anything. We’ll get him to find out what’s going on. Problem solved."

Bucky wasn’t sure that actually counted as _problem solved_ , but since Steve was working his way down his body with single minded focus, he decided he didn’t care.

 

*   *   *

 

There was no one else in earshot. No one on comms. No comms at all since the three of them were alone in one of the Tower’s many generic sitting rooms, and Steve had sworn JARVIS to secrecy.

None of this was a coincidence.

The Avengers were more than just a team; they were, in many important ways, friends. Some were closer than others, there were some Bucky trusted more than others. But however much he trusted them, however much he’d go into battle beside them or watch their backs through a scope, there was no way in hell he or Steve wanted their little mouse problem to become common knowledge.

It would be a nightmare. Stark alone would probably drown them in cheese.

Steve sidled, or as close to a sidle as one giant blond approaching another giant blond could manage, up to Thor and asked, "Your Allspeak, it works on animals, doesn't it?"

Thor gave Steve a bemused look, which was fair enough given Steve’s attempt at a sidle. "Indeed it does." Bucky flanked him, collecting a second bemused look. "Is there an animal you wish to speak with?"

"Yes," Bucky said. "A bunch of them."  

Voice low, Steve briefly explained their problem. As he spoke, Thor’s eyes grew wide and bright even as his expression didn't change. "So I guess," Steve finished, "we’d like you to come and find out why mice keep leaving things outside our door."

"It sounds most vexing," Thor said solemnly. Bucky was prepared to bet his other arm that behind all that noble solemness Thor was about to bust out laughing, but he simply continued, "Of course I will come."

 

*   *   *

 

There was one penny, one blue paper umbrella, and two scraps of yellow cloth waiting outside the door when they arrived.

There was also one tiny tail, disappearing into the hallway vent, but it would have taken extraordinarily sharp eyes to notice it.

"See?" Bucky said, pointing. "They leave this stuff."

"It does seem very strange," Thor agreed, seeming more amused than anything else.

"Will you talk to them?" Steve asked.

"Let’s see if there are any about."

Bucky had seen stranger things in his life than Thor, Asgardian prince, God of Thunder, sometime Avenger, standing in the hallway of a Brooklyn apartment building, speaking to mice who maybe weren’t there, but not many.

Turned out, they _were_ there. As Steve leaned on Bucky's shoulder they started to appear. Creeping out from the vent, squeezing out from between the elevator doors, sliding down the inside of the windowsill from a near invisible hole in the ceiling, little brown mice, some splashed with bold patches of white. 

They made their way down the hallway, hugging the walls…and every mouse paused as it passed Steve, tiny noses tilting up to sniff the air as they clutched their tiny front paws.

Thor hunkered down on the carpet as he spoke to the mice, and they gathered around his feet. Tiny squeaks filled the air, growing louder and faster as they seemed to compete with each other to speak. After a few minutes, their heads swivelled, all the mice and Thor, to stare at Steve.

Steve took a step backwards.

Thor was grinning.

"What?" Steve said.

"Well, my friend, it seems you and I have something in common."

"Besides being tall, blond, and made of muscles?" Bucky asked, leaning back on the wall as the mice migrated from Thor to Steve. He hid a smile at the unimpressed look Steve gave him, since it was hard to take seriously when he had tiny mouse paws pressed against his shoes as the mice gazed up at him. He wasn't an expert in mouse body language, but he was comfortable describing their expressions as _adoring_. "Careful," he said, nodding down at them.

Steve’s eyes about bugged out of his head when he followed Bucky’s gaze. "Thor?"

"Alas, Steve, I can be of no help. _I_ am not their god."

Bucky saw the instant Steve twigged to Thor’s emphasis, or maybe it was the dozen _more_ mice creeping out of the grate to join the others. "Oh no."

"Oh yes, my friend. You are their god. They are most adamant. Is that not right?" Thor said to the mice.

They nodded emphatically and flipped their ears.

"There, you see?"

"But. What. I can’t. How. _Why_?" Steve seemed to have flatlined. Bucky bit back laughter.

Thor frowned, looking down at the mice, then back to Steve. "Do you not remember? They are very clear on the tale. You banished a vile cat then lifted them up and carried them to a new land of food and safety."

Steve's jaw dropped. Bucky straightened, because that…that was familiar. It twigged a memory. A Brooklyn alley, but not what those alley-memories usually held. This was Steve _happy_. This was Steve grinning and proud. Not clench-fingered bloody pride; it'd been something sweet.  

"Not these mice, of course. It was their ancestors, but they tell me the story has been passed down for generations."

Steve closed his mouth with a snap. "You're telling me these mice are the, what, great great great—I don't know how many greats—grandkids of the mouse I saved from a cat seventy something years ago? And they know who I am? And they think I'm their..." He looked at Bucky, like Bucky could save him from having to say it, but Bucky had nothing. "...god?"

Thor looked down at the mice, looked back at Steve, and said, "Yes."

Steve started to laugh, a disbelieving, you have got to be kidding me laugh, and Bucky kind of wanted to join him—and he wasn't sure whether it was over this, or over Steve saving that mouse all those years ago, because he remembered now. He gently squeezed the back of Steve's neck as he asked Thor, "How did they know it was him? Pretty sure mice don’t read the paper and he doesn’t look the same."

"His smell," Thor replied, as if it should have been obvious, and turned to Steve. "Your smell is their name for you."

Steve covered his face. "Do I want to know?"

"It does not translate well to any human language," Thor said diplomatically. "The closest equivalent that captures the essence of how they smell you would be," he frowned thoughtfully, "piss and vinegar."

Bucky cracked up. Steve folded his arms.

"Is that not a saying?"

"Yeah, it’s a saying, all right," Bucky said. "It’s just a little too accurate."

"Ah, well. Mice do have a very keen sense of smell."

"I’ll say." Bucky poked Steve in the ribs, gently, then caught his arm and leaned close, careful not to step on any mice, and kissed him. "Mice or not, they’ve got your number." He kissed him again. "And you know it."

Steve broke into a reluctant smile.

"Did they say what’s with the stuff they keep leaving?" Bucky asked.

"They are tribute. Gifts for their god, things you might find useful."

Steve stared down at the mice and they stared hopefully back from where they were gathered around his feet. "You don’t have to do that. You don’t have to do any of that."

"They have waited a long time for your return," Thor said gently. "It is important to them."

With a small sigh, Steve carefully crouched down and offered his hand to the mice. The closest ones wiggled excitedly and one, tinier than the rest, delicately sniffed Steve’s finger before scampering away to hide behind the biggest mouse, peeking over its back at Steve, then ducking down to hide again.

Against his will, Bucky was charmed, but it had as much to do with Steve’s soft smile as anything rodent related.

"What do they need from me?"

Thor repeated it to the mice. The biggest mouse squeaked back, two others joined in, and Thor nodded. "They have tried to live up to your example, to be what you would want them to be. To help each other and protect each other, to protect and help other mice. They want you to be proud of them."

Steve bit his lip. He stared down at the mice, who sat up on their haunches and stared back. Slowly, he reached out with both hands and touched each mouse, a delicate brush over a back, the press of a fingertip between tiny ears, and the mice bowed their heads, eyes half-lidded in joy.

"I'm proud of you. Of course I'm proud of you," he said softly, Thor repeating the words in a soft murmur and the mice clasped their front paws, whiskers quivering in barely contained excitement.

It should have been ridiculous, they were _mice,_ the whole thing was crazy, but Steve's eyes were deep and warm and Bucky got it. He _understood_.

Maybe they were only mice, but whatever they'd learned, whatever example had been passed down through however many generations, it'd come from Steve. Steve _before_ Captain America, Steve from before there'd even been a super-soldier serum to volunteer for. Back when all there'd been was a scrawny, never-say-die kid who refused to walk away when someone needed help.

Bucky leaned down, pressed two fingertips under Steve's chin and tilted his head up, pressing a kiss against his mouth. Soft, sweet, everything he'd never had words for back in that Brooklyn alley, everything he felt now, and Steve sighed softly, leaning into the kiss.

He was vaguely aware of the mice moving in a determined wedge towards Thor, the tiniest one squeaking firmly at him as they herded him towards the elevator.

"I will leave you, my friends," Thor called. He gave the mice at his feet an amused glance. "I’m not sure I'm being given a choice."

"Bye, Thor." Bucky waved with the hand not wrapped around Steve's chin. "Thanks."

The elevator door closed and they were alone. Maybe. There was probably a mouse or two somewhere, but Bucky could live with that.

"God of mice," Bucky laughed, drawing Steve to his feet so he could push his hand under Steve's shirt, fingers sliding gently over Steve’s skin, revelling in the way Steve shivered under his touch. 

"God of Brooklyn mice. Technically one _family_ of Brooklyn mice. I’m not the god of all mice everywhere."

"Still." Bucky lightly kissed his cheek, the corner of his mouth, then kissed him properly, still soft and quiet and gentle. "God of mice."

"Stop that."

"Whatever you say, your mousejesty."

"I think that’d be for a _king_ of mice."

"And you’re the _god_ of mice. Okay," he corrected quickly at Steve’s disgruntled expression, "god of a family of Brooklyn mice," and then he laughed and laughed, because Steve's disgruntledness was a _lie_. His eyes were crinkling, his mouth was turning up at the corners, despite his best efforts to hold it down, his whole body was exuding warmth and happiness and Bucky hauled him in and held him tight. "You like it. Admit it, Mister piss and vinegar."

"Maybe," Steve said, brushing Bucky’s hair back so he could kiss his forehead and Bucky felt him smile. "And that's _Captain_ piss and vinegar."

Bucky hummed thoughtfully, dragging a finger down Steve's nose before tapping it gently against his lips. "I don't know... Captain this, god of that." Steve nipped his finger and Bucky pulled it away with a grin. "I've always been happy with _Steve_."

**Author's Note:**

> It's a little known fact that mice love prawn crackers (aka prawn chips, shrimp puffs). If you ever need to catch a mouse, that's what you want to use. Also, mice are made of fight, something else a lot of people don't know.


End file.
